The first time Kale Carver saw his future clearly—in high-definition, latency-free cryovision, so to speak—it was a snowy Christmas morning in his childhood.
His little sister shook Kale awake at dawn. Mom was frying bacon in the kitchen while Dad made waffles, the sweet and smoky scents mingling and wafting upstairs along the exposed wooden beams to the log cabin’s second story. A fine layer of snow had piled in the backyard overnight, covering their toys and the gardening tools with soft white mounds. It gave the normally unkempt grass an impression of continuous, unbroken coherence. It was beautiful and perfect for Christmas. Kale couldn’t believe his luck.
Even now, the memory of that moment sent a tingle of excitement vibrating through Kale’s toes and fingertips.
Downstairs, Dad hissed as his skin grazed the hot waffle iron. He stuck a finger in his mouth, then hollered up the stairs. “Kids! If you want, you can each open a present before breakfast.”
With a squeal of triumph, young Kelly tore down the stairs and into the first present she found with her name on it. A century later, Kale could still recall his sister’s fervor in vivid color. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember what she found inside.
Why? Because with his preternatural ability to fix his focus entirely on a singular point, Kale had identified a most valuable gift of his own. The small box drew his gaze into its gravity well, so that he saw nothing else from that point forward.
From beneath the shreds of festive wrapping paper, from between the lotus-petal leaves of upcycled off-white designer packaging, the crystalline rectangle of his first Bioterm rose like a shining star and came to rest in his shaking hands.
